


Read-Only Memory

by arysteia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/pseuds/arysteia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Winchester live a transient life, and there's very little they'll leave behind, but what there is Sam cherishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Read-Only Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the challenge at spn_outsidepov. My prompt was _Sam's laptop_.

The laptop Sam buys to replace the one he lost in the wreck of the Impala is actually his third. It’s a thing of beauty – titanium case, dual processors, massive hard disk. The kind of thing he could only have dreamed of as a student, did dream of actually, but top of the line’s no problem when Finbar Turley and his platinum Amex are footing the bill. It's better in every way than the Dell he'd scrimped and saved for, and light years ahead of his original second hand dinosaur.

Funny, though, how its immaculate screen and smooth, streamlined contours give him a pang every time he logs in, and make him long for that long dead doorstop, in all its clunky glory. The chip in the side of the palm rest above the slot for the wireless card, the one dead pixel top right of the screen that always showed red, the two hairline cracks in the bottom right corner which had pissed him the hell off when he first noticed them, but were actually kind of pretty, glowing white through whatever he had open.

He could probably run multiple chat windows, Word docs, spreadsheets now, and web surf too, like he used to try in the dorms last night before finals, inevitably leading to crashes and frozen screens. Not that simultaneous apps are exactly a problem anymore. He does a lot of online research, sure, and it's handy to IM Ash at all hours, but chat's not exactly a priority. Dean was right about keeping in touch; the emails from Stanford friends dried up pretty fast after the initial flurry of address changes, . _edu_ to . _com_ , as jobs took over people's lives.

It's not as though he writes a lot of reports, either, from the information so painstakingly gathered. They copy what's important into their father's journal, writing small and neat as they can to make the most of the few remaining empty pages. How Dean'll react the day they finally run out is something Sam thinks about more than he'd admit to, late at night when he can't sleep and sits up considering – _stewing_ , Dean would say – by the blue glow of the screen.

He suggested once, just once, that they type everything up, maybe scan some of it in, build some kind of searchable database, and Dean called him a fucking elitist prick who could shove his college ways up his ass, and stormed out of their hotel room into the night. Sam would have been more pissed, except that Dean left without putting on a jacket, or even his shoes, and his wallet and car keys were still on the bed where he'd thrown them, and even he'd have trouble getting served or laid in that state.

When he came back an hour later, red eyed and blue lipped and shaking from the cold, Sam said nothing, just stripped off his wet jeans and t-shirt and bundled him into bed, climbing in after him and pressing up against his frigid back. "It's all there is of him left," Dean whispered, almost too low to be heard, and Sam wrapped his arms around him tighter and still said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

He doesn't have a leg to stand on, anyway, when it comes to sentimentality, because hiding in plain sight, right there on the desktop under Dean's own log in, password _Zeppelin Rules_ , is a folder that alone takes up about a third of all the space Sam's managed to fill. He stuck it there on purpose, knowing Dean never logs in as himself, preferring to just piggyback off Sam's open account when he's in the bathroom or out fetching coffee, and never remembering to clear the cache so Sam inevitably comes back to dozens of flashing pop ups and a browser history full of porn and metal band fan sites.

He makes a point of complaining every single time, always harping on the porn and never, not once, ever, mentioning the amateurish Google searches for _Winchester family surviving relation Lawrence Kansas_ or the profile of one William Johannsen at _reunion.com_ that provides no personal information whatsoever but links to every high school Dean ever attended, or the Word files Dean never thinks to delete from the Recycle Bin that begin _Dear Cassie_ or _Yo Kathleen_ , or once, heartbreakingly, _Hey Mom, it's my birthday, I'm older than you today_. Instead Sam retrieves them all and transfers them carefully to the folder he's starting to think he just might, one day, maybe, be able to share with Dean.

The first time they visited the Road House, while Dean was outside slapping the Impala's steering wheel and honking the horn impatiently, dying to leave, Sam was inside giving Ash a six pack, a bag of weed he'd liberated from Dean who'd won it in a poker match, and the battered hard drive he'd pulled out of what was left of the Dell.

Ash claimed he could make no promises, but the glint in his eye said something different, and sure enough when they pulled in next time through, the first thing Ash did when Dean's back was turned was transfer all the files back over. "Y'know, man," he said while they were waiting, watching the little document icons fly, "you should really back that shit up," and Sam just nodded and said, "Yeah, I know," and then Dean came back in from talking to Jo and Ash started pulling up charts and talking about crop circles and house fires and wind signs, and that was the end of it.

What Ash didn't, couldn't, know was that Sam _had_ backed it all up, but the disks had gone up with everything else he owned in a burning student apartment back in Palo Alto. Or that Sam had already paid the Comp Sci student in the apartment down the hall a hundred bucks he didn't have, from a shitty job he hated, to recover the data in the first place when the original laptop died, _irretrievable boot error, files are corrupt or missing_.

These days he burns off disks regularly and sends them to himself at post offices across the country, and actually utilises the ridiculous amount of storage Yahoo and Gmail provide, emailing multiple copies back and forth across the aether. It's awkward when Dean opens the mailboxes and demands to know what's in the little parcels, and he feels like the worst kind of OCD stricken nerd, but hard drives die for no reason in the best of circumstances, and it'd be more than he could bear if he ever actually lost this stuff for good.

A battered, bloodstained diary might be all that's left of John Winchester, but apart from the clothes they stand up in, the car they ride round in, and the trail of phoney credit card bills they leave behind them, one password protected Windows folder's pretty much all there is to show that Dean and Sam Winchester ever walked the earth either. Sam doesn't open it often, it's enough just knowing that it's there. And every time they're in a town big enough to have a decent copy centre, he scans in a little more of the stuff Bobby gave him after Dad.

Most of it was at Pastor Jim's apparently – their birth certificates, Mom and Dad's marriage licence, a few scattered report cards, a couple of hand scrawled essays covered in red ink, some clumsy drawings on the backs of diner menus, the crayon still bright after all these years. He files the copies carefully away with the photos Jenny gave them in Lawrence, the thank you postcards they occasionally get from people who actually know what they owe them and are grateful, the picture strips from instant photo booths Dean pretends he hates being dragged into but always smiles so damn hard for, and posts the originals back.

They join the academic transcript he'll likely never use, the notes he took the trouble to type up, the last pictures he has left of Jess. One of Cassie he found in the bottom of the wrecked trunk, under the guns and the ammo and the spare tyre, when he emptied it out at the salvage yard. Testimonials from professors, emails from friends. Endless rambling chat logs that sound now as though they're in another language.

The first thing he ever typed up on that very first computer. _Dear Dean. I don't know where to send this, I called the house and the phone's been disconnected so I guess you're already on the road, but I want to thank you. For driving me here and not just leaving me at the bus station, and for understanding that I had to go, even though I know you couldn't understand why. I hope Dad wasn't too mad when you got back. And of course I want to thank you for the laptop, I don't know how you got the money, but it's amazing. I only wish you'd given it to me yourself instead of just sneaking it into my bag. But maybe it's for the best. I'd have tried to hug you like a chick or something, and you'd have got all grumpy. Well, grumpier than you already were. I love you too, Dean, and I hope you know that. Sam._

And the Notepad file that had been the only thing on the desktop when he opened it for the first time. _sammy. every college boy needs a computer, can't have you getting detention or whatever for not doing your homework. it's not new and it's got a few dings i guess you can see, but it was the best i could afford. do well and be safe. i miss you already little bro. dean. p.s. i love you and i'm proud of you. you'll never in your lifetime hear me say that again, so file it away for a rainy day. later dude._

Dean never got to see Sam's reply, but one of these days Sam's going to find the courage to accidentally leave it open when he goes to get breakfast. The wait for ham and eggs and French toast should be long enough for Dean to get it closed, and something safe and X-rated open in its place. For the time being, though, the laptop itself bears silent witness.


End file.
